Thursday, March 31, 2011

Ending March

India won the semi-finals to the World Cup yesterday. We played against Pakistan. I am not really interested in the sport. But I am interested in victory, especially my country's, and especially victory over slightly rabid teams like Pakistan and Australia.

Interestingly, though, my point of interest was Yuvraj Singh. I have never liked the guy. Since I don't follow cricket, much less Yuvraj Singh's performance on the field, my dislike was based on gut, tabloid information and those advertisements where he mounted so much gel on his head that satellites orbiting the earth would get trapped onto those spikes of follicles.

But in an earlier match against Australia and in yesterday's game, I found Yuvraj to have gotten quieter. There wasn't that annoying noise and static around him - of machismo or obnoxiousness that passes off for 'attitude' nowadays. He had the capable, stoic bearing of a general who would go into battle silently, with fortitude, and win. He shone. I was stumped, by what a man can be capable of when he's secure enough to let his skill do the talking.

The match over, I did consider going out to celebrate. That has been deferred now. One of these days, a friend and I will tour Juhu beach for the choicest falooda. But as the night waned and I had idly flipped through a novel, I did want to sweeten the episode - of having watched a winner accept his mantle graciously.

I got a chewy chocolate-chip and cashew cookie and smeared it with thick, smooth, cool cream. It wasn't the royal, elaborate falooda dessert. But it was nice. It was very nice. Sometimes, in unlikely simplicity, you find strange heroes and lovely desserts.


Friday, March 25, 2011

Better...maybe...

Some day, it would be nice to wake up and get a cup of prefectly brewed coffee at just the right temperature. Hot, but not scalding. Swirls of steam rising prettily above the nice, clean pink rim of a porcelain mug. Then I take a purple laptop on to my yellow duvet with sparkly embroidered butterflies. I log into gmail, and I find something in there that will shake my world. Happily.

Maybe a love letter. Or a stunning offer for a writing assignment. Or a mailer informing me that I've won a great holiday somewhere.

It would be nice to wake up and catch a break of some sort.

There is a verse in the Tao Te Ching. I don't remember it verbatim but it says something along the lines that wanting withers the soul. I loved that imagery. However, I think that withered flowers may be past their beauty, but they somehow lock in a more solid truth.

Today is a day of slow withering. Things seem hard now. Maybe tomorrow, gmail will have seep the withering soul in.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Stories once. Cheddar now.

When I gave up my job, I thought there would be a lot more time to write for myself. However, I was wrong. Most people become freelancers because they don't get enough free time due to their jobs. In truth, that's like getting out of a pool and jumping into the ocean because you're tired of swimming.

I had planned to write my diary a lot more. Post more stuff on my blog. Catch up on my correspondence in a big way. Mainly organize my thoughts meticulously.

That's not to be, though.

Of course, I am writing extensively. I think I write close to 9 hours a day. 9 hours of pure, unadulterated stringing of words. None of them are for myself, though. I'm not complaning. But I think of all those ideas I wanted to pen down. I wanted to write about why I quit my job. Also, my vacation plans to go to Puri, Orissa. About the books I read. The seven different kinds of sunrises I watch between five and seven in the morning. My hot and cold relationship with yoga and meditation. Friends who've fallen off on the wayside like scabs off a wound. Cities. My city. And lives. My life.

But there's no time for any of that now. Sometimes I feel that time is grating my mind like a cheese. Now, all my stories fall away in a pile of soft, pale, yellow curls.

Thursday, March 03, 2011

There's got be a way...

...where you can live out the rest of your life with someone, knowing fully well that he is toxic. That he will always, always bring you down. That, in any conversation or dialog, you will be at the receiving end of sick, putrid hatred.

There's got to be some way in which you can hold on to what you know about yourself, tightly. So what if your worth is being hacked, thrown in the gutter and being peed on?

There's got to be a way in which you get past this vile, bile-tasting acrid loathing. To swallow the corrossive, sickening fear and doubt. To finally get it over and done with.

There's got to be a way to get through this, smelling of roses and drenched in light.